Aladra: From the Streets to the Battlefield
by CelticWater
Summary: Aladra,orphaned by English soldiers is adopted by a carter and is taught how to fight. She thirsts to avenge her parents,and dreams of fighting alongside a rebel,William Wallace. As she and Carter venture a forest and meet Wallace, her dream may come true
1. Ch One: Where it Begins

Chatper One----Where it Begins

Disclaimer: As much as I wish I did, I do not own anything from Braveheart. If I did, Stephen the Crazy Irishman would be within my sight at all times.

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William Wallace was a great man. Well, much more than great, obviously, since he was the leader of the Scottish War for Independence. Anyway, when we knew each other—Och! Forgive me! You are confused, no?_ A common Scot girl knew William Wallace? Nah, can't be!_ Oh, aye it is true. A good friend to me, Wallace was. Wallace, Hamish, Stephen, Campbell, Morrison—Yup, all of them! But, if I began my story from there, we won't know which way is up, and which way is down! Ha! 

My story began from when I was a wee lass of eleven—as clever as a scholar and as mischievous as an imp, Ma used to say. Like many children of the English occupation of Scotland, m'sire was slaughtered and m'mother was raped, by King 'Longshanks' of England's soldiers. Oh, and I got to view it all as I was hiding under m'cot, frightened like a cornered hare. I remember it as clear as dawn—she smell of our commoner hut, she screams of Ma, and the vivid red and orange uniforms of the hell-soldiers. Damn lovely, eh? I remember most the face of one the men who stole Ma's will.

I was quivering and sobbing silently as the last solider stood up, and Ma's lovely head lolled to the side as she fell unconscious. The men laughed and began to file out of our tiny round house. But a young soldier who raped Ma third stood still as could be, staring at her, almost as if he regretted fouling her body. My soft green eyes flickered to the right and I caught sight of Da's decapitated head, letting out a small gasp of revulsion and anguish.

At my gasp, the lone soldier spun around, drawing his sword. His gaze darted around the room and his steel eyes found mine, innocent and peering out from beneath the crude bed. Oh Lord, never have I seen such gray eyes. The man himself was quite young for a soldier, mayhap eighteen? He was not ugly, and I wondered why he needed to rape Ma, when many other girls would be bedded by him and give him no resistance (Yea, I may have been young, but Ma had told me where babies came from LONG before then).

I let out my breath and tried to shrink into the shadows, wishing myself invisible. I expected the rapist to slit my throat with that terrifying blade, but he just stared at me. He then did something more I did not expect—he knelt to get a better look at me. I gave a small whimper. As I stared into his eyes, I saw a jumble of emotions—Pity? Anger? Sadness? Regret?—and he motioned for me to come out. I shook my head viciously, and he began to talk coaxingly with that foreign English language of his, which at the time I could not understand. I continued to shake my head, and a gruff voice called something from outside. The soldier looked out the door, then back at me. He looked hesitant. He then sighed and said something to me, before striding out the door, his chain-mail boots clinking. _CHINK CHINK CHINK_. I have now translated what he said to be, "I will remember your face. Forgive me, girl, for what I have done."

I waited until twilight before warily climbing out from under the bed. My mother, I found, was dead. When the soldiers had raped her, she had bleed to death. My head-severed father, needless to say, was very dead. And so I, an only, orphaned child, stumbled around the roads of Scotland, scavenging for what I could for two years, until one day, I was adopted by an old carter on his way to Edinburgh. A wary, hardened child of thirteen, I at first denied his kindness, then, as we repetitively stumbled upon each other, I accepted him as my friend. I found his name was Carter. Carter the carter. Perhaps not the most creative title…

Carter had been a novice monk then (as he found that job quite boring) he went into the apprenticeship of ((**surprise, surprise!**)) a carter. He taught me English along with Latin when he learned, to his disbelief, that I was only fluent in my native Gaelic. _Then_ he discovered I couldn't read or write, so he taught me literacy (aye, he expects a lot out of a peasant Scot!) The months I spent with Carter turned into years, and the old man grew into a father figure.

I remember one night as a lass of fifteen, perhaps one of the most important nights of my life, I was sleeping in the back of the cart when I jolted awake, woken by a yelped curse of pain. Frightened for Carter, I leapt out of the cart and shot towards the cause of the noise, only to find the old man clutching his fist and a blunt blade at his feet. "Carter!" I cried, shocked, and ran forward.

"Oh, Aladra," he groaned, still clutching his hand which I saw seeped blood. "Why you?"

"What do you mean, 'Why me'? What happened to you?" My eyes dropped to the blade. "IS THAT A SWORD???"

"Aladra, shh, shh!"

"YOU CAN WIELD A SWORD??"

He swore, tore off a piece of his kilt to wrap his wound. "Yes, I can, alright? Quiet down!"

"QUIET DOWN!" I howled. "YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE A CARTER! CARTER'S DON"T WEILD SWORDS!!!!"

By the time Carter calmed me down, I'd nearly fainted from shock and my voice was hoarse from my shrieking. Carter hastily explained that he never was a novice monk, but a squire to knight in his youth. He had courted his knight-master's daughter being the father's back, and when the man found out, he chased Carter from his estate, banning him from a chance at knighthood. Carter, ashamed at his actions and affair, began to look for another job while taking on the ego of a retired young monk looking for fortune. He found an apprenticeship and became Carter the carter.

I asked why he still trained in the art of swordsmanship, and he said, "Well, in case to defend myself from highwaymen, of course! You've only not seen them because Longshanks' soilder have scared them off. Of course, it's only luck that the soilders themselves haven't attacked us..."

The statement of the soilders arroused something in me, and I unwillingly looked back on the day of my orphaning. A hidden fire flared, and I immediately demanded Carter to teach me how to use a blade. This wasn't my usual behaviour, as I always treated Carter with respect, and he knew I must have a good reason. At first he was reluctuant (he did not want me to get hurt), but after a week of begging, he finally gave in.

Within the next few months, time flew as Carter and I spared with makeshift, wooden swords, and I found that my pysical condition skyrocketed, even if I was exhausted and the end of the days. Then, rumours of rebel activity against the English began to appear, to which I disgarded as what they were--rumours. Then I would hear from a man at a tavarn that he himself and seen the rebels and their leader. The man said the leader was a commoner named William Wallace, and he fought for not just his clan, but for all of Scotland.

The fact that the rumours were true struck me like lightning--I still remembered the deaths of my parents vividly. I began to stop at every tavarn in the towns Carter and I rested at, and quested for any news on Wallace. Late at night, I would imagine myself fighting alongside the man, stabbing the shortsword Carter had newly bought me into the breast of English soldiers that dared to stand in our way. I knew it was a sin to even _dream_ of killing. I didn't care. I had left my God as soon as my parents had died. It seemed unrealistic to me that any being that I was told was so loving and kind, would make my life so miserable when I had done nothing.

My sixteenth birthday came and went, and Carter began to advise me on men and their lusts. I coldy assured him that I knew much more about men than he thought I did, and stomped off, tears beginning to run down my face at the thought of Ma. Later, I felt guilty for snapping at the only person in the world who cared about me, and ran to Carter, throwing myself into him as I sobbed. He asked what was wrong, and I told him for the first time in the three years that I knew him about that dooming night five winters previous. He immediately began to comfort my shaking self and assured me he would never let what happened to Ma happen to me. That night only brought us closer.

Then, as we were traveling through a forest on our way to Edinburgh, we met a man and his fellows who would change our lives, and the lives of anyone in the British Isles...

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**My first fanfic...is it ok? Please review or I swear to god, I will cry eyes eyes out (ok..maybe not literaly). I don't care if they're flames or not, as long as they're just THERE. I'm going to try to post the next chapter tomorrow... but it's Christmas Eve if my non-existent brain is correct, and I may be super busy.**

**Cheers!--CelticWater  
**


	2. The Chapter that Isn't

**I'm going to step away from Aladra for a second, and introduce you to a new character...a little someone from a certain someone's past...whoo, am I evil!**

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The Chapter that isn't a Chapter--It's an Introdution

Disclaimer: If I owned Braveheart, you'd know it---In other words, I'd be ruling the world by now...heh heh heh...

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He'd dare leave her...dared to leave their island..._HER_ island...

And he'd pay.

Seanait leaned over the edge of the ship in growing anticipation as she neared Scotland. Soon she'd have her meet with Stephen Fighter. Yes, he'd pay a very satisfying revenge...No one left Seanait Darcy without her consent and got away with it. NO ONE!

_T__he ungrateful little_ slime_! There are men who would die to be my lover, and he skips off to the Scots thinking I won't notice? The bastard!_ The lovely maid slammed her foot onto the deck in fury, attracting looks from other passengers on their way from Ireland. Sailors who had eyed the lone, fair-haired woman when she first boarded now breathed sighs of relief that they had not persued her. It was obvious Seanait wasn't a good-natured woman as soon as you heard her slick voice speak, no matter her attractiveness. The sailors felt pity for the man she was chasing.

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Miles away, a humoured, good-natured Irishman laughed among Scotsmen, unaware that a woman bent on his death was slowly advancing towards him...

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**I'm sorry! Stephen's really my favorite character ever!  
**

**Stephen: Then why'd you bring my imminent doom into the story?!!**

**Who said she's gonna kill you??...Anyway I'm working on the _REAL_ Chapter Two right now...please review!!!!!!**


	3. Ch Two: Rebel Scots

**Next chapter! No more of the fake-chappy crap, I swear! Ok...so we're moving back to Aladra. Enjoy!**

Chapter Two: Rebel Scots

Disclaimer: **We all know that I don't own Bravheart because I obviously would be a lot richer. And that's that.**

**Also, I don't own** _Jock o' Hazeldean_.** But judging by the lyrics, it looks like the guy who does is probably loooong dead anyway...**

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"Sing a song, Carter!" I cried as we rodet he wagon through a forest one twilight, on our way to make trade at Edinburgh. 

Carter groaned. "But I sang _three _only an hour ago. Take it easy on an old man."

"Och! Don't be shallow, Carter."

"No."

"Please?"

"Damn it, Aladra! NO!"

...Silence.

Carter glanced over at me and immediately looked like he regreted it. I had pulled out my ultimate offense: widened, watery eyes and a quivering, pouting bottom lip. Carter swore. "Alright...Alright! Just stop that!" I gave a cry of victory and stopped my merciless technique. Carter took a deep breath and began an old, Scottish folk song.

_"Why weep ye by the tide, Ladye?  
Why weep ye by the tide?  
I'll wed ye to my youngest son  
And ye shall be his bride  
And ye shall be his bride, Ladye  
Sae comely to be seen  
But aye she loot the tears down la'  
For Jock o' Hazeldean_

_A chain of gold ye shall not lack  
Nor braid to bind your hair  
Nor mettled hound, nor managed halk  
Nor palfrey fresh and fair  
And you, fairest of them a'  
Shall ride our forest queen  
But aye she loot the tears down la'  
For Jock o' Hazledean_

_The kirk was deck'd at morning tide  
The tapers glimmer'd fair  
The preist and bridegroom wait the bride  
And dame and knight are there  
They sought her baith by bower and ha'  
The ladye not be seen  
She's o'er the border and awa'  
Wi' Jock o' Hazeldean!"_

I clapped enthusiasticlally and Carter gave a small bow. I began to chatter about how he should have been a bard intead of a knight, when a group of six English soldiers marched around the forest bend, their halberds gleaming menacingly and bright red uniforms in deep contrast with the green trees and undergrowth.

Carter swore silently. We ducked our heads and tried to seem as insignificant as possible, Carter ushering the oxen on quietly with the reigns and I staring at the hands in my lap. I thought we would make it past when the captain of the group called for us to stop. The soldiers surrounded us and I could have swore I could smell their anticipation as they wondered what their captain wanted with us. Though I didn't look up, I could sense the lead man was looking us over. He trotted his horse in front of us then had the beast pace back and forth, knowing we were dying to know his intentions and enjoying our anxiety. It was Carter who spoke first. "What is your reason for stopping us?"

The captain cleared his throat. "Where are you heading, old man? What is in your supplies?" Ugh, never had I heard Gaelic disgraced with such a thick accent. The fact that he spoke to us with such a tone of disgust, when he was in _our _country sickened me. No doubt, he hated us and our culture. The only reason he spoke in Gaelic was because he had thought we were simple peasants who couldn't speak a word of English. Leave it to an Englishman to underestimate a Scot. I couldn't contain myself.

"We can speak English just fine," I spat in the captain's own tongue, even though I did not look up. I immediately wished I had not. Carter gave a small groan and the English captain road over next to my side of the wagon. He gave a menacing chuckle. "And who are you, to be so intelligent as to know my language. Obviously you're more than a pretty face...I figured all Scots were savage idiots." I bit my lip and clenched my hands in anger, struggling to hold my tongue. "Look at me when I talk to you, wench!" the Englishman snarled.

I rose my gaze hesitantly to look into the face of a grizzly, middle-aged man. He smirked. "You see, men!" he called to his soldiers. "Even the most resistant of Scots are bound to submit to an English soldier. Much like this so-called Wallace, who'll soon get his fate. You know, I hear he's in these very woods!" The soldiers muttered in annoyance, obviously knowing this piece of information before their captain had shouted it out.

_So the man is trying to give us hope just to torment us. What a bastard,_ I thought savagely. Yet I couldn't help but wonder if it was true. My heart unwillingly lifted--at least if the soldiers tried to attack us, Wallace would save us. I hated myself for thinking such childish hopes, but couldn't subdue them.

Carter cleared his throat. "We are heading for Edinburgh. Our supplies are but a few crates of potatoes which I am to deliver to a friend, and our own living supplies. We are already late--please, let us through."

The captain glanced at Carter dismissively then returned his attention back to me. "Upon the topic of submission, miss, perhaps you would care to join us fine, soldiers this evening? We haven't had the company of a good woman in so long..."

My face twisted from defiance into shock at what the man was suggesting and I shrank back from soldier. "I wouldn't be bedded by you if the choice was between you and a boar!"

The man laughed mirthlessly. "I don't think you have much of a choice, lass." As he reached for me, memories of Ma's fate stirred, and I snarled, drawing the shortsword hidden in my sleeve, slashing it dangerously close to his face. He instinctively drew his own sword and we clashed blades. A soldier launched himself at Carter, and the old man drew his longsword hidden under a parcel in the cart, meeting the soldier's weapon. Before I could compute what was happening, Carter and I were being attacked by the squadron of soldiers.

My first skirmish racked fear and adrenaline inside me as I parried blows from the English soldiers. I stabbed my sword into the arm of a soldier, and the blade broke through his rusted chainmail. The young man gave a cry and dropped his weapon, stumbling backwards. Out of my fear for survival, I raised my blade to dig into his throat when a cry of my own escaped my lips as the captain dug his sword into my left shoulder. I screamed and rolled out of the way as his blade came crashing down where I had stood, ulimately cutting into the soldier that was my target. The captain looked horrified that he had killed his own man and spun around to me. I was parrying the blows of another soldier, one hand clutching my wound while I battled with the other. By now it was dark, and difficult to see with only the light of the moon.

_You're going to make it through this, _that fake hope whispered. _You'll see. Wallace will come and--_

"Shut up!" I screamed, shoving my shortsword into my opponent's gut. My eyes widened as I stared at my first kill of a man. The soldier stumbled backwards, staring at the blade embeded in his gut. I twisted the sword and yanked it out, causeing blood to spurt. The soldier fell, never to rise again. I heard a warcry and turned to see the captain charging towards me, halberd raised. I jumped out of the way just before it struck me.

"Aladra!" I heard Carter cry through the clang of metal. "Go! Hide! Into the forest!"

And I ran.

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I ran until my legs wouldn't carry me any further. My only thought was to live, and get away from the chaos. My legs wouldn't work, so I dragged myself against a near tree and instantly fell asleep, fatigued and suffering blood loss. 

I woke to bright afternoon sunlight. I at first was confused as to where I was. Where was Carter? Where was the road? The cart? A dull throbbing in my shoulder instantly reminded me of the night's events. I looked down to see my entire left side covered in blood. Fortunately, the captain had not stuck deeply and the wounded had clotted so that I hadn't bled to death. Even more fortunately, no wild animals had come and eaten me in the middle of the night.

Once I was sure that I was alright, I began to be aware of otherthings...including my crushing guilt.

Of Carter.

I had left an old man to defend himself against six English soldiers. Well, five actually since I had killed one, but nonetheless, he was outnumbered. I had ran from the man who had treated me as a daughter...for my own saftey. Aye, he had told me to run, but that wasn't what was right. I should have stayed. Should have fought side by side with my only family. But no...I had played cowardice. What would Da have said?

_Nothing,_ I reminded myself. _Because he's dead. Like Carter. Like Ma._

I continued stumbling around the forest until dark. By that time I was as weak as a new born lamb...no, weaker. There was no sense of new birth about me--only death. It surrounded me like an evil aura, crushing me like one of Afrika's giant pythons. Then, I blacked out.

My first conscious thought was warmth. I was compressed by something thick...but it was warm. _If this is what death is like...maybe it's not so bad..._ Death seemed so petty now, and I was not at all afraid that my life was over.

Then, I heard voices. Thick, deep voices. Masculine. My thoughts tumbled and I realized I was not dead but in the posession of men, and_ that _frightened me. I stirred, then felt my shoulder ache again, and groaned. The voices hushed, then stopped. I cracked my eyes open to stare into someone else's deep, blue gaze, frammed by auburn hair. The man grinned.

"Welcome back to earth, lass," said William Wallace.

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**So she finally meets Wallace. I'm having a bit of trouble on the plot...I can't decide whether to make Carter dead or not. Some suggestions, maybe?**

** And would somebody please review??? Twenty-Two people have visited my story, and I haven't had one comment. Am I really that bad of a writer?**

**Cheers--  
CelticWater  
**


	4. Ch Three: Of Weak Legs and Irish Salutes

Thank you, Scottishgal12, for my very first review! I'm so happy! 

Chapter Four: Of Weak Legs and Irish Salutes

Disclaimer: Don't own Braveheart...yadah yadah yadah...

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"Welcome back to earth, lass." I stared at the man openly, my breath quickening rapidly. How I knew that he was Wallace, I could not tell...I just knew. Mayhap it was the way the men surrounding the campfire gazed at him with such respect and admiring. Or perhaps it was the he seemed wise, intellectual and savage all at the same time, while still maintaining an air of humoured tranquility.

Wallace reached out to me, and I shrank away. I could not say why--had I not dreamed of this man nightly? He chuckled slowly. "You need not fear us, lass. We would be the last ones to harm you...especially since the English have left their mark on you."

I frowned and tried to speak, but my throat was parchment-dry. I coughed and sputtered savagely. A man walked forward and offered his waterskin to me. "Here, lass," he said, an Irish accent evident on his tongue. I took the skin and drank deeply, then handed it back to the Irishman. He frowned and shook it. "You drank all of it!"

"Och, shut up and sit down, Stephen," someone muttered in the background. The Irishman shot the Scot a rude hand gesture before stepping back.

Normally I would have smiled, but my heart bore heavier thoughts. "What do you mean 'the English left their mark on me'?"

This time an old yet sturdy-looking Scot spoke up from the night. "The wound on your shoulder, it's the shape of an English blade's puncture. No other army bears that type of sword." The other Scots murmured their agreements. "Yet I wonder, lass, how was it that you were to be encounterin' such men?" All of the men looked down at me expectantly.

I grasped the blanket which had kept me so warm and looked away. "Chance."

"Ah, lass," Wallace coaxed. "All of our fates are chance. But chance or not, there is reason for happenings."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Lass--"

I don't want to talk about it!" I snarled. The Scotsmen shot me suprised glances for my tone with their leader.

Wallace sighed. "Then rest."

I found myself standing up in defiance of him. With my torn and bloody dress, my hair netted with twigs and leaves, and the firelight playing across my form, I looked like a hellwitch. "I've seen more than any girl of my age should. I've wandered cold roads and evaded cutthroats and rapists and evil sprites. I've trained by the hand of a sword and the wit of a knight. My ears have listened to politics and rumours for the slightest glimmer of hope. I've escaped soldiers of the Devil and I'm not about to surrender to the orders of some rebel!" With that, I stomped off into the trees out of pure spite. Of course, I didn't get far before I collasped against the trunk of a mighty oak. Aye, my will might have been strong, but my legs were not. ...And I began to cry.

For Carter...for Ma. For Da. And even the man I had killed within the skirmish. With the thought of him, my mind drifted to another English soldier...a man I had not thought of for the longest time. The soldier with eyes the purest color of steel. Cold and warm at the same time. A battle within myself raged--a civil war that had lasted five years. I both loved and hated this soldier...both were powerful emotions, and I did not even know the man's name!

He killed Ma and Da! A man who surely deserves a racking in Hell!

...He spared you. He spoke to you with sweet concern and regret. How could you hate him?

Ma! Da! Why don't you ask them if we should hate the man or not. Oh that's right, we can't because he killed them! And what about Carter?

Yes, what about Carter...?

You bitch of a traitor! He sacraficed himself for us, and you don't even care?!

Why should I care about ANYONE any more? They're all traitors. They all abandoned me.

Listen, you! You can't just--

"Lass?"

I took a sharp intake of breath and twined a hand into my bloodied dress. I could recognize that Irish accent anywhere. "What, Eireannach?" I snapped weakly without looking over my shoulder.

The man, Stephen according to a Scot, was silent for a moment, then spoke. "Do you hate us Irishmen, or what, girl?"

I stood up, swallowing my instant nausea as weakness consumed me. I leaned against the oak for support. "I just might, if you don't leave me alone," came my growled reply. I took a deep breath and stepped forward. Bad move. My legs collasped beneath my weight and I fell towards the earth. Stephen darted forward and caught me. "You sure you don't need my help?" he asked me with a sly grin.

My enormous pride wouldn't allow that. I looked up at him and hissed, "I thought I told you to leave me alone."

He looked down at me and blinked. "Fine." He took his hands away from his me and I instantly plopped to the ground. I looked up at him from the earth with a dropped jaw. I hadn't expected that. "Why're you looking at me like that, girl?"

While my jaw flapped uselessly and somehow found myself. "You--you dropped me!" I exclaimed, shocked.

"Well, you wanted me to leave you alone." As I continued to goggle at him, the Irish Fighter gave me a mocking salute with a smirk and said, "'Night, lass." With that he turned and strode back to the campfire.

I stared after him for a moment, then realized I was cold. With nowhere else to go, I began to make my way make to the Scots, leaning from tree to tree for support. When I finally got back to the site all but the old man were dozing. He grinned at me. "Back from your little walk, are ye lass?" he asked. I grumbled a reply, returned to my blanket, and curled up inside it, soon having mocking dreams of weak legs and Irish salutes.

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This chapter's kinda short and pointless, but I found the last part pretty amusing.

I beg of you all...review please...!

Cheers!  
--CelticWater

Eireannach----Scots-Gaelic for "Irishman"

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	5. Ch Four: Assassins and Fights

**I forgot to mention that the name "Seanait" means hawk **

**Disclaimer: sigh I wish I owned Braveheart, but I don't…**

**Fortunately, I do own Aladra, Carter, Seanait Darcy, Malcolm, Sean MacAndrew...anything you don't recognize, short and simple. As my profile says: BACK OFF, RIPPER-OFFERS!!!**

**On with chapter…whatever number it is…

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**

The door opened, and a dark cloaked, hooded stranger walked in. Patrons of the tavern looked to see who it was, then glanced away dismissively. No doubt it was just a wanderer, coming to look for a drink and a room for the night.

The stranger slunk over to the bar and sat at one of the chairs. The barman turned. "Hail, stranger! Welcome to The Stag's Horn. How can I…" He cut off as the stranger shook his head sharply and gestured to be quiet. He then inclined his left finger three times, beckoning to the innkeeper. The man leaned forward, interested. "…Aye?" he whispered.

A strand of long gold hair fell from the cowl and tumbled onto the stranger's chest as he nodded. "I need…to find someone," the wanderer said.

Unsure of what to do, the barman repeated, "Aye?"

"A man…an Irishman. An Irish Fighter traveling with a company of Scot rebels."

"You mean with William Wa—"

"Yes, yes. You know of such an Irishman?"

The barman polished a glass. "I might know of someone by that description… But you see, there's a bit something wrong with my memory…I _might _remember if something valuable, per say gold or silver, was given to me. It's the only thing that works, with my condition…" The man gave a wolfish grin.

The stranger looked around the room. "Let us talk in private." Barely able to contain his glee for the possibility of earning some extra gold, the barman led the stranger into his personal room. "Shut the door and lock it," the figure ordered. The barman did, blinded by greed to see any disadvantage he might have in the situation. "Are these walls thick?"

"The thickest the can get without being stone, sir, no one can hear through th—." He dropped off as the stranger removed the hood to reveal that it was not a man, but a woman. The most beautiful woman the innkeeper had ever seen, with shining gold hair and the face of an angel. She smiled seductively at him. "Can I really only trade you currency for what I need to know?" she asked, pouting.

The innkeeper grinned crookedly. "I might be persuaded."

The next noon, a maid knocked on her employer's door. The man hadn't come out since the stranger left his room that morning, and there were customers waiting. With no answer from her knock, the maid gently pushed the door open only to scream.

The innkeeper lay on his bed naked and bloodied, several stab wounds embedded in his chest. If the maid had known human anatomy, she would have seen that the man's left side of his chest sagged a bit, and that his throat was slashed more than necessary for him to be killed. There was a severed heart—_a **heart**, for Christ's sake!_ she thought—and crude, bloody note on his desk. It read: "He played into the talons of a Hawk. He died."

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I opened my eyes and instantly yelped. The two great sapphire eyes shoved in my face blinked. "You're up!" their host, a boy a few years older than me, crowed loudly. He shook my hand very enthusiastically. "Th'name's Malcolm. Malcolm Tryer. I heard you fought Englishmen. What was it like? Was it hard to fight them? Did you kill some? How big are their weapons? Is their blood really green?" 

I stared at him with my jaw slightly slacked. "Um…yes, difficult, yes, yes, big, and…no, I don't think they're blood is green…" Where he got that idea, I have no idea. I don't think I even _wanted_ to know.

He looked disappointed that English blood was a normal hue, but immediately opened his mouth to let more questions pour out, most of which I couldn't even understand, he was talking so fast. Much to my relief, the old man from last night appeared, firewood in his arms. "Malcolm," my saviour groaned. "Leave the poor lass alone."

"But she killed fifty English soldiers! I want to talk to her!"

"Oi!" I interjected. Where did he get _that_ from? "When did I ever say I'd killed fifty men?" I demanded.

The old man threw back his head and laughed. "Not five minutes after meetin' the lass, an' ye're already scarin' her off, lad?" He laughed again. "Ye'll never lose your virginity, boy!"

Malcolm glanced at me embarrassedly. "Shut _up_, Campbell," he said in an undertone. I laughed softly. Malcolm's ears turned bright red, deeply contrasting his black hair. He muttered something about crazy old men before standing and walking off.

I sighed. "Thank you," I said.

Campbell gave me a wink. "No problem, lass," he chuckled. He threw the wood into the fire, which consumed it in a roar. "Th'boy's not really that bad. He's just never met anyone his age who's fought those Hell Soldiers before. Give 'im some time, an' he'll calm down."

"Thanks." I looked down at my hands uncomfortably. "Um…is it possible I might have a word with Wallace?" I wanted to apologize to the man for snapping. I knew it's be hard…I don't exactly have the smallest pride.

Campbell smiled. "I don' know where he his, but I bet m'son does, them bein' best mates. Hamish!" he roared.

A giant, burly red-beard ran over, battleaxe wielded and breathing heavily. "What is it? Englishmen?" he asked, taking a fighting stance.

"Englishmen?" a loud voice shouted excitedly. Malcolm had returned.

"Where? Here? At the camp?" a group of men asked nervously.

"Englishmen! At the camp!" a sentry called out. Soon all of the Scots' camp was a mess of soldiers grabbing weapons, boys readying horses, and the word that the whole English Northern Army had arrived.

I groaned and slapped my forehead.

Campbell stood on a tree stump, throwing his hands into the air. "Listen, men," he said. The Scots continued to bustle about. "Lend me yer ears!" Still chaos. "Shut yer traps and stand still, ye ungrateful piss ants!" the old man bellowed

_That_ got everyone's attention. Every living creature froze, with exception for the birds that took off into the air from the trees. Campbell coughed meekly. "There are no Englishmen. 'Twas just a false alarm. Now everyone calmly return to whatever ye were doin', _now_."

To my disbelief, the men began to put weapons away and unsaddle horses, grumbling about rumours. Campbell hopped down from the stump and glared at Hamish and Malcolm. The boy grinned sheepishly before ducking away. Hamish just shrugged his massive shoulders. "You can never be too careful," he said modestly.

His father snorted. "Aye. Now, do ye know where William is?"

Hamish had to think about it. "Huntin'," he said finally. "About time, too—I can't feel m'stomach." He pondered that statement a moment. "Actually, I can, and I don' like it. It hurts."

Malcolm appeared again. I swear that boy can pop out of nowhere. "Aw, Hamish. You're supposed to be a man. Suck it up and stop complainin' about food for a couple more hours."

Hamish was taken aback by the boy's boldness, but quickly recovered, his face turning redder than usual. Then he noticed me sitting there, innocently wrapped up in a blanket. "Listen, boy," he snapped, finding an accusation and jabbing Malcolm in the chest with a large finger. "Just because your little lassie-friend is sittin' there, doesn't give you a right to come in and act as if you're a man!" Malcolm's ears turned even brighter than before. He adverted his eyes to his feet and muttered an apology.

"OI!"

The three looked down at me, brows raised at my sudden shout.

I felt really undignified yelling at grown men while my arse was glued to the ground, so with weak and wary legs and slowly stood and crossed my arms. "I'm getting a bit sick of you two suggestin' that I've a relationship goin' on with Malcolm. I mean no offence, but d'you think you could stop it?"

Campbell's face was unreadable, but he looked like he understood me and nodded. Hamish, on the other hand, was a tiny bit angry.

"Ye damned youngers!" he exploded, throwing his hands into the air. He stomped off, continuing to storm. "Don't know where you belong! Talkin' to me as if I'm not your elder…A damned generation! Can't understand the meanin' of a li'l discipline! I should go an'…" I blinked, wondering how Hamish could have descended from such a good-natured man as Campbell.

Campbell looked at my bewildered expression and laughed. He picked up an axe, as if he was going to go cut more wood. "He's not usually like that, lass. He just needs a battle. He's restless." The old man blinked at the axe in his hands. "Hell, we _all_ need a battle, and somethin' decent to do." He swung the axe over his shoulder and took off.

I laughed slowly. "You rebels are all crazy," I chuckled, turning to Malcolm. He was still staring at his feet, his jaw clenched. "Malcolm?" I asked.

His jaw gave a feral tic as he clenched his teeth harder. "I don't even know your name," he finally managed angrily before stomping off.

I blinked in confusion. What had that been about? I shook my head. It seemed I had a knack with having males walk away from me. Stephen, Hamish, Malcolm. Hmm, maybe I could use that to my advantage some day.

I decided after a while that just standing there looking pretty wasn't going to do anything for me, so I began to look for Wallace. So what, if he was hunting? I needed to discuss quite a few things with him. Hamish would just have to be hungry a few more hours—my problems were bigger than a growling stomach. Much bigger.

I began asking around for which way Wallace went. After quite a few minutes, I finally found an answer—west of the camp. Well, it wasn't very specific, but it'd have to do. I began to stomp through the undergrowth westward.

Before long, I saw a man in a kilt. I was going to call out to him, but I then realized that the kilt's colours weren't that of Wallace's. I would have just turned and forgotten him, except I noticed the man was holding a broadsword and he was creeping around as if he was up to something. Narrowing my eyes in confusion and curiosity, I began to slink behind him silently.

It wasn't long before I saw Wallace, arrow notched at a stag and oblivious to the fact that behind him was an armed man. Then I saw something else—Stephen also hiding behind a bush, his dagger drawn. What was going on? Was it Stephen or the man in the kilt that was after Wallace? Or were the two ganging up on the him? Either way, so much for thinking the Irishman was a good soul.

I was about to shout out a warning when Stephen crashed through the bushes, his dagger raised. Wallace tensed, wide-eyed, and instantly swung his bow up at Stephen, readying to fire. But he was unaware of the other Scot behind him. Stephen then drew back his dagger and—threw it past Wallace and at the man with the broadsword. I stifled a scream and my jaw dropped. Once again, another unexpected move from the Irishman.

The blade sunk into the would-be assassin's chest and he gave a quieted grunt before slumping to the ground, broadsword falling from his hand. Wallace and Stephen knelt before the dead man, both of them breathless. I turned and ran back to the camp. As I stumbled into the site, a few were curious as to why I was so wide-eyed, but I simply shrugged them off and returned to the campfire. I'd a lot to think about. The assassin had been the third man I'd seen killed since my parents were slaughtered. Not a happy thought. It seemed lately that I was finding it harder and harder not to think of Da and Ma. My conscious wouldn't allow it. And so I plotted to find them peace, and when at dark I saw Wallace return, I knew he was the key to my late parent's resting.

I stood up and paced over to the Rebel as he stood between two trees, explaining to the enraged Hamish the Hungry that he had caught nothing. As the big red-beard stomped off (for the second time that day) I took his place. "William Wallace," I said uneasily.

The man gave me an exasperated look. "If you're hungry, too, I can't do anything about it," he stated flatly.

My laugh was nervous. "Nay…I'm fine. I just need to talk with you about some things."

He spread his hands. "Fire away, Aladra. Interesting name, by the way." I blinked and opened my mouth to ask how he knew my name. "You were mumbling in your sleep," he said, answering my unasked question.

"Erm—that wasn't what I was goin' to ask."

Wallace laughed at my shifty eyes. "I'm sure you weren't. So, what were you going to talk to me about?"

I took a deep breath. "I want to fight, Wallace. In your army."

"What? You're a lass!" Apparently, my request caught him off guard.

"I know what I am, Wallace," I said coolly, looking him in the eye. It wasn't easy acting so calm. "I can fight. I've killed an Englishman before."

"No, lass."

"How can you already be so decisive? You haven't even seen me fight yet!" My tranquillity was gone, replaced by my eagerness to fight.

He shook his head and repeated, "No, lass. Fighting is men's work. Leave it to us."

"They killed my Ma! I need to avenge her!"

"Most of our mother's were killed by Longshanks' men."

"So let me fight!"

"No!" he snapped, showing temper for the first time I'd seen him. "Leave the fighting to the men. If you want to help, ask the women. Wash laundry, cook, anything, but you aren't touching a blade!" Without another word, he strode off, thanks to my gift to make men resent me.

I quivered with anger. He was being unjust, unfair. Sending me to go do chores like a good little girl! What damn right did he have? Tears of rage and helplessness leaked from my eyes and a silent sob tore from my lips. I sank to the ground, arms linked around my legs as I cried into my knees.

I felt a gentle touch to my shoulder and looked up to see Stephen. "Aladra?" It seemed the whole camp new my name, now.

"What?" I whispered. I reminded myself to hold my tongue.

"When I dropped you two nights ago, I didn't mean to hurt you."

I blinked at the sudden statement, and then laughed softly but grimly. "You didn't hurt me."

"I did," Stephen said, shaking his shaggy head. "I forgot that you had probably just lost someone and had good reason to snap, but went ahead and acting like an arsehole. I shouldn't have, and I'm sorry." I had been thinking of tracking _him_ down and apologizing all day, and he was saying sorry to _me_?

_There has to be a catch_, I thought bitterly, searching his eyes for any sign to what it was, but I saw nothing but sincere apology.

I took a deep breath. "I did lose someone," I admitted bitterly, looking down.

The Irishman sat next to me. "Who, a father? I heard you had already lost your mother."

I pondered that for a moment, the past few years of protection flying over my eyes. "Yes. My father," I said finally. "His name was Carter."

I saw his eyes soften in the dim moonlight. "I'm sorry, lass," he sadly said. "I lost my own _athier _when I was just a lad. To Englishmen, of course. That's why I'm here now...I don't know why, But I feel as if his soul needs revenge."

"And you can fulfil that revenge. You're lucky," I whispered. With the thought of my own helplessness, I began to cry again. Of course, it didn't help that my monthlies were due any time soon...

I felt Stephan put his arm around my shoulder and pull me next to him. Had I been thinking straight, I would have resisted him, but my mind was not my own just then. I'd never had a man touch me quite like this, and with the Irishman's arm around my shoulder, I felt...safe. I pressed my cheek against his shoulder, and he rested his head on mine.

"I was hunting," he said suddenly, but softly. "And I saw you there, barely breathing and with an Englishman's wound in your shoulder. I first thought you were an animal that had escaped a hunter's trap, you were covered in blood and tangled in leaves. When I realized you were human, and a woman—" The colour drained from my face when he called me a woman. The last time a man had said that, it was the English-captain, and he had wanted to—

"NO!" I abruptly cried, tearing myself away from Stephen and jumping to my feet. "NO! N-not that!" I hysterically told him. "If y-you only want that, I can't...I can't! I won't!"

He stood, looking confused. "Aladra, what are you—?"

"I won't let you!"

"What are you talking abou—?"

"I WON'T!" I yelled, turning to run.

He grabbed my wrist and clamped a hand over my mouth to muffle my scream. I began to flail my arms, frightened, but he pinned them both behind my back with one hand, the other still over my mouth. "Aladra," he murmured into my ear. "Calm down." My chest heaved with fear and heavy breath, and my eyes were wide, but I ceased struggling. His words sedated me. "I won't hurt you," he continued softly. He released and turned me around. "Why don't you trust men? What makes you think I would do anything to you against your will?"

I shook my head furiously, staring at my bare feet. I wouldn't talk.

"Please tell me, lass."

More rapid head shakes.

I felt callused fingers slide under my chin and he gently forced me to look at him. "Lass, tell me. What happened?"

A tear slid down my cheek. "The man with steel eyes," I croaked. "He stole Ma."

Stephen's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"He stole her," I whispered. "He and his devil-friends. He stole her will. Stole her life. He stole her from me." The narrowed eyes softened as Stephen realized what I meant. He put his arms around me and held me to him. I began to sob into his chest, feeling safe once again. "I-I was only eleven."

I felt him look down at me. "Lass—"

"I hate me."

He began to stroke my hair. "Shh. There's no reason to. You wouldn't have been able to do anything. The best thing you could have done is what you've already accomplished—survival."

I buried my face into his leather tunic. "That's not why I hate myself."

"What do you mean?" he asked for the second time.

I then admitted the three hardest words I have ever and will ever say. "...I love him."

I felt Stephen's body go rigid. He stepped away from me, his eyes flicking across my face. "What?"

"I love him," I croaked once more. There was no need to say who "he" was.

"What? How could—after what he did—"

"You don't know all of the story."

"I don't need to!" Stephen exclaimed. "He raped your _mathier_!"

"But—"

"Jesus! There's shouldn't _be_ any buts, Aladra!"

Tears swelled in my eyes. "I know! I hate him!"

Silence.

Then: "But...you just said..." He looked unsure of what to say, or do.

I explained the night years ago to him. "I'm so confused," I muttered afterwards. "I don't know what to do, or what to think. It feels as if someone had taken my mind over..."

Stephen looked down. "I'm sorry," he finally said and stormed away.

I stared after him. I know it was horrible and selfish to hope, but I thought maybe he might embrace me again...For the third time, he had done something completely opposite of what I thought he would. And this time it broke my heart.

I know it shouldn't have. I was being hypocritical. Had I not just told him that I loved another man—one who had caused me great distress—over him, when he was comforting me? I swore and kicked a tree stump. I was too young to have to deal with that drama! Good god, why couldn't I have grown up a normal girl? I trudged back to the camp, in a very foul mood. Wallace wasn't there, and Stephen was apparently fast asleep in his bedroll. Lucky them—they didn't have to face my hormonal wrath. I went to my blanket, and let sleep consume me.

The next morning I was awoken by loud slurping and chewing noises. Hamish was devouring two innocent turkey legs quite nosily. I sat up and yawned, immediately feeling a dull throb in my stomach. I needed food.

Hamish stopped eating when he noticed me waken. He looked down at the legs, then at me. At the legs. At me. At the legs. At me. He continued to do this for about five minutes before finally giving off a sigh of self-disgust and offering one of the hunks of meat to me. I looked up at him and blinked, confused. "Take the damn meat," he advised. "Before I change my mind and swallow it whole." With a murmur of thanks, I took the leg and began to eat, aware that another Scot at the fire was watching me. He was a young man with black hair and braids. Two scars lined his face. This was Morrison, according to Campbell.

"Hey," he finally said to me when I had finished my leg.

I looked up at him. "What?"

"You say you can fight?"

Unsure of where he was going, I slowly said, "Aye..."

He stood and drew his dagger. "Then get up. Let's see what you've got."

I cocked my head. "You'll fight a girl?"

He shrugged. "I'd offer a fight regardless your sex."

"Alright..." I stood and tossed the turkey bone over my shoulder casually.

"Och!" someone howled. "Who threw that at me?" We looked at the Scot and shrugged. He swore and marched off.

Morrison chuckled as I drew the shortsword from my sleeve. "What an aim," he laughed, referring to the turkey-bone incident

I made a face and took a fighting stance. He copied my position and we began to walk in a circle cautiously, watching each other's even slightest twitch. Morrison suddenly let out a howl and lashed out at me with his dagger. _Damn_, I swore silently as he nearly sliced my arm. _He's fast_. I jabbed my blade at his gut, which he effortlessly caught with his dagger. He broke away from the clash, ducked, and knocked my legs from underneath me with a swipe from his foot. I dropped to the ground and rolled out of the way as his blade came down. I hissed as the ground put pressure on my half-healed shoulder, but rolled to my feet, striking at him.

He laughed—_laughed!_—as I nearly hit. Morrison once again met my blade with his own and we pushed our weight, trying to crush each other into submission. He lashed his leg out at me again, and this time it struck me in the gut. I broke away and hunched over, trying to regain my breath, sputtering. He stood there watching me as I coughed and wheezed, looking slightly concerned. I then suddenly leapt at him. His eyes widened and he raised his dagger. I grabbed his free arm, threw my weight forward, and tossed him over my shoulder. He hit the ground with a smack, landing on his back. I jumped on top of him and held my shortsword to his throat, breathing hard. He blinked, taking as deep of breathes as I was, trying to comprehend why a girl had bested him. He gave a weak grin. "Good job." When I did nothing, he said, "You can get off now." I grinned also, but mine was wolfish and predatory.

I leapt off, crossing my arms. "Well? Did I pass?"

Morrison stood and blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Just what I said—did I pass?"

"…There was nothin' to pass. You think this was a test?"

"Well, yea," I said, raising my brows.

"This was no test, lassie," he laughed.

My temper flared. "I cannot join the army?"

He shrugged. "William said you couldn't, so you can't."

"But I just beat your arse! You; a full grown soldier!"

He shrugged again. "I'm sorry, lass." My face turned red and I spat in his face before turning and running into the trees.

**

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Okies! Did I rush Stephen too much? I think I may have...If you review, please tell me if I did. **

Anyways...thank you, my two reviewers!!!!


	6. Ch Five: Ready for Battle

**So sorry for the wait!**

**I originally planned on writing one, HUGE chapter, but I decided to split it in two. Here's the first part. Hopefully soon I'll have time to finish the second part.**

**Disclaimer: You know the routine. Want Braveheart...Don't own...keep your filthy hands off my characters...Yadah, yadah, yadah.

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**

I sighed loudly as the camp rushed around me. Wallace was readying to march to Stirling, to meet the English. I dug my toe through the loose dirt before me in frustration. Those past two days, I'd never been in a fouler mood. I avoided any person—man or woman—and those I encountered met my sharp tongue. I didn't mean to act so…_bratty_. I regretted any cruel words as soon as they left my throat, but at the same time, I didn't. Aye, I know, I was a mad little lass.

As the soldiers bustled about, I was going to return to my bedroll to sleep a bit more, when Wallace approached me, adourned in leather-and-iron armour. "Listen, lass," he said to me as he cinched his armour into place. "In case you're having any thoughts of sneaking along with us men, you'd best leave those thoughts alone. I won't have your death on my conscience."

I blinked at him. "I wasn't even—"

He slid a leather, spiked covering onto his arm. "Don't tell me you weren't. I've little time. Just make sure you don't come...Steward, where are those blasted horses?!" he called as he strode off.

I blinked again. Little did Wallace know, he had just promoted exactly what he only then forbid.

* * *

It was quite easy to fit into the Scotsmen. All I needed to do was steal a kilt and shirt from the drying laundry, bind my chest flat, braid my hair, and rub some extra dirt over myself. Now, actually figuring out how to wear the kilt was a completely different matter…Anyway, when I was done, I easily passed as a scrawny, young soldier. No way in all the hells was I going to be a good little lassie and do what Wallace bid me. No, I would show him. It would be easy. …Oh, god was I naïve. 

The march was one of the more difficult things I'd ever done. Stomping around muddy, rainy trails when I had only just recovered from my stab was_ not_ in my list for a perfect week. Not to mention hiding my face from the few who actually knew me, eating meagre "meals", and sleeping on the cold, wet ground with no blanket. Never would my bedroll leave my side if I returned. Never, ever, ever.

It took two weeks to march to the battle site—two of the most miserable weeks of my life, mind you. We were allowed to rest a sleepless night until we would storm onto the battlefield, and join with some unknowing lords' army at the back of one side of the field. I truly tried to be rested that night, but it was impossible while knowing I was marching onto the battlefield, and either getting off alive, or staying there for eternity in the carnage after the battle, my body sprawled and bloodied among others. That last thought chilled me thoroughly, and by the time I fell asleep, I was dreaming up laughing Englishmen and dying Scots.

"Lad, wake up," a voice said softly, twining through my restless sleep. "We're almost on the march. Come on, lad."

I blinked, and then opened my eyes fully to see a grizzly veteran soldier, to whom I had taken a liking. I groaned. "Leave me alone, Sean," I grumbled, rolling my back to the man and closing my eyes.

"Fine," I heard Sean say. "But I've this bucket of nice, cold river-water, saved for dumpin' onto young lads who don' waken when asked…"

My eyes shot open at the threat. "I'm up, I'm up!" I yelped, jumping to my feet groggily. I blinked dazedly at Sean's empty hands. "Where's the bucket?"

He grinned. "I don' have one. I was jus' bluffin'."

I swore and observed the forested camp. Soldiers were running everywhere, arming themselves, donning meek leather armour, and sharpening long spears. A few younger boys were readying horses for Wallace and his captains.

Sean sat on a log and picked up a bowl of blue paint. "Sit, lad," he said, patting the wood.

As I complied, I asked, "What's the paint for?"

Sean grinned. "It's the tradition of our ancestors," he explained, dipping his fingers into the substance. "Hold still." He reached towards my face with paint-wet fingers.

I held up my hand and backed up a bit. "Hold still for _what_?" I enquired warily.

The man grinned again. "I'll show you when I'm done." Though hesitant, I allowed Sean to press his fingers to my face, smearing blue over my cheeks, once I saw that other men indeed had their faces painted. When he finished, he handed the bowl to me. "Go ahead," he encouraged. I shrugged and repeated his actions. I ran aggressive arrows down the man's cheeks, a mask around his eyes, and spikes over his brow. When finished, Sean took the bowl and gave it to another group of men. The veteran then gestured for me to follow him, and he led me to a spring. "See what ye look like," he laughed, pointing to the water.

I looked into the calm, reflective water and jumped backwards. My face looked inhuman, and very intimidating. Sean had painted forked horns sprouting from my brows, intense curves over the bridge of my nose, flecked patterns on my cheeks and striped below my eyes. I heard Sean chuckle and glanced at him in curiosity.

"I like what ye painted," he said, indicating his elaborate features. "Interesting meanings. Come on, we'd better get back to camp." As we walked back to the campsite, he pointed to my face. "The horns mean tranquillity and assertion of a stag, the curves suggest the brutality of the sea, and the stripes signify the fork of the devil."

I blinked. "The designs were supposed to mean somethin'?"

He frowned. "Well…yea. Ye didn't know that?"

As we approached camp, I sat on the ground and laughed. "No, I didn't. When are we leavin' for the field?"

Sean grimaced. "In twenty minutes. Don' remind me."

"What're battles like?"

Sean looked away, a distant dullness in his russet eyes. "Bad," was all he said.

"Aw, come on, MacAndrew," John, a young soldier, jeered. He lounged around our fire casually, already armed, and an aloof look in his eyes. "They can't be that bad."

Sean glared at the young man. "Ye've never been in war; ye wouldn't know."

John snarled suddenly, rising from the ground. "You think I've been livin' under a boulder, the past eighteen years of my life?" he shot viciously at the veteran, drawing his pike. "I've had to deal with Longshanks' hold on Scotland, just as much as any man here! Don' tell me I haven't been in war!"

A burly, dark soldier named Douglas stood purposefully. "Put it away, boy," he said quietly, resting a large hand on the hilt of his own axe.

John looked as if he was going to reply sharply, but seemed to think better of it and tucked his pike into his belt. He laughed, brushing the tension off as if it had never appeared. "Aye, I may have never been in a battle, but I know that the lassies like soldiers!" he said, nudging me with an elbow and sitting. "What 'bout you, Alan?" he asked, using the same I had given my male alias. "You ever had a lass?" I shook my head, obviously. I don't fancy other girls. "'Course not," he laughed. "You're just a wee boy!"

Knowing that the remark was meant to offend me, I clenched my jaw and looked away, pretending to have my dignity hurt.

"Leave him alone," Sean said, sounding bored.

John laughed. "Well, he _is_ young. Have you heard him talk? His voice hasn't even cracked yet!" He grabbed my forearm. "An' look, his hair's as sparse as a girl's!"

I jerked my arm out of his grip. "Leave me be, John." I hoped the men hadn't noticed that my breath had quickened. John had been so close to guessing my true identity.

The young soldier snorted and stood. "I'm goin' for a piss," he announced, and marched off.

Douglas patted my shoulder. "Ignore the brute," he said lightly. I nodded, shrugging. He stared at me for a moment, then walked away to arm himself.

Sean approached and held a soft-leather tunic out to me. "Here," he said. It won't do much, but still it's better for ye than it will for me."

I blinked at him. "But—"

"Take it—" Sean looked around to see if anyone was close, then whispered, "Take it, lass. And before ye ask any unnecessary questions, it would be easy to tell who ye are for any father who has raised four daughters." He frowned. "Though I may not agree with ye riskin' yer life, I won't stop ye." He shoved the tunic in my hands. "See ye on the field, Alan," he said loudly, then striding over a large group of men to pick up a spear.

I hesitantly slipped the light leather over my head, musing on the thought of my secret being found so easily.

* * *

The English army is a terrifying sight. They are so organized…so uniform…so…_immense_. And their armour all looks the same, so that you'd swear they are all copies of a single person. Even generations from now, they will probably be the same. Aye, their weapons may improve and strategies may vary…but they will always be that same army. 

However, these were not my thoughts as I stared at cold death from across the green field. Instead, I was thinking of how I may never see the golden Scottish sunrise again, or play memories of my childhood before my eyes. It was impossible not to think of these risks when Death beckoned with His cold finger, naught even a half-mile away. I licked my lips nervously and glanced at Sean, who stood two soldiers away. He gave me a small, sad smile and nodded. I looked back at the front and gulped. I was grateful that two lines of soldiers were between me and the English. So grateful.

Four horses were galloping back to our line from the middle of the field. I prayed that Wallace and the nobles had negotiated a treaty with the English, but when Wallace dismounted from his horse and joined his captains on the line, I knew that was not the case. We would fight after all.

I caught a glimpse of Stephen as he stood after praying. His face was painted, as mine was, but in a resemblance of slashing claw marks. The woad hue pronounced his blue eyes and contrasted his dark hair, and played across his expressionless face as he stared at our enemy. I prayed to any being listening that he would survive the battle.

Intensely we stared at the English, and they at us. But as my heavy heart sunk and I was sure I would never leave that field, a sudden cry burst through the air, followed by another, and another, and another, until the entire Scottish army erupted into war screams. I found even myself hurling insults and bellows at the English, thrusting my shortsword into the air, then clashing it together with my dagger.

One man stepped forward from the rest of the army, dropped his weapons…and lifted his kilt skyward to reveal himself to the English. The rest of the soldiers thought this to be, apparently, a very ingenious idea, and with a roar, soon every Scot was proudly displaying his manhood to our opponents. Every Scot except me, that is. A vulgar act such as that would have exposed my true sex…not to mention draw multiple male gazes.

Then, flags rose from the other side of the field. Archer flags. The Scots immediately hushed and dropped their kilt hems, retrieving their weapons and tensing for the onslaught. I looked at Stephen and Sean a last time before watching the Englishmen again. I saw the arm wave of one of the men on a horse, and the scarcely audible cry of, "Loose!" followed by the _thrum _of released bowstrings and the buzz of flying arrows. They flew towards us, a black fire of Hell ready to devour. Men watched, watched…waited…waited…raised their shields as the missiles flew towards them.

The repeated sound of _thwap thwap thwap thwap!_ and cries of agony filled the air as the arrows found their targets. The soldier next to me screamed as an arrow dug into his stomach. I turned my head to look at him, just when something flew past my ear and shot into the man behind me. Another arrow barely brushed Sean's leather armour, so that I felt only a slight sting. I would have to thank the veteran later, if I didn't die.

The missiles finally ceased piercing the Scots. Men peeked out from over their shields or behind raised arms. They then stood and began to roar at the English in triumph…then…turned, bent and bared their arses at our enemies. This act I partook in, making sure to use my kilt to cover up anything that would have revealed my gender. I just couldn't resist taunting my parents' murderers like that. Also, if I didn't, I would have stood out…considering every member in our army, save the Calvary, was shaking their arse at the English.

Unexpectedly, we heard arrows release again and immediately turned to duck behind shields and swords. As they descended into the Scots, a few men were unlucky enough to not turn around in time and had arrowheads lodged into their buttocks, poor lads.

When the missles ceased piercing into us, I saw Wallace stand alone, and wave his weapons at our Calvary. "Ride!" he called. I looked over my shoulder, still crouched down, to see the Scottish horsemen turn and ride off of the field. My jaw dropped as my mind buzzed rapidly. _Where were they going? Horses, even light calvary, were a main part of the Scottish army. Surely Wallace knew that!_

_Aye, he does know_, the reasonable part of me--a small, often ignored part, mind you--whispered soothingly to myself. _He's a soldier--trust him to make the field decisions. You just focus of surviving today._ Deep inside of me knew that the voice was right, and I swallowed hard, trying to shake off my anxiousness. I stood, as the rest of the army did. I tucked my weapons into my belt, wiped sweaty palms on my kilt, then drew my dagger and shortsword again.

On the English side, the man who had ordered the archers to fire raised his arm again, and cried something inaudible. But the raised Calvary flags varified what he had commanded. Knights perched upon great, armoured warhorses and bearing menacing lances. They trotted out onto the feild at an even pace, armour heard clicking together even from where I stood. Seemingly hours passed as the mounted warriors approached us Scots. I looked at Sean again, hoping to catch his eye, but he was staring at the knights. My gaze then shifted to Stephen, then to Douglas, but both appeared to be mesmerized at the sight of the horsemen. As a last resort, I looked at John. His dark eyes, like mine, were shifty, and I caught his attention. He tried a weak grin, but failed and the attempt looked more like a grimace. I nodded to him, my brow furrowed, and looked back at the feild as I heard the speed and volume of hoofbeats increase.

The Calvary now charged fully, their war cries ringing from within their helms. As they came at us, I heard Wallace calmly say, "Hold."

Faster they came...

"Hold..."

Closer now, closer, closer...

"Hold...!"

Still the horsemen came, thundering hooves like the hellish storms that brewed in the winter.

"Hold!"

The riders leapt over the bank, lowering their lances to impale the first line of Scots. What was Wallace waiting for? _Now, you curst man!_ I screamed at him silently. _NOW!_

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**Aaaaand, cut!**

**First thing first, before I begin my usual plea for reviews. The true meanings of the Celtic marks the Scots painted on eachother are probably MUCH different than what I wrote. I just made the meanings up, because I'm lazy like that. O.O**

**Now: Reviews and even Flames are much appreciated.**


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